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Arnold and I met in 1969 when I became his student in an evening life-drawing class.
Had I been alert to the warnings that today’s young women instinctively possess, I might have recognized his glance down my blouse, his staring at me, his whispering in my ear, “I wish you were older,” for what they were.
I immediately developed an all-consuming crush as only a teenager can.
But that was not how I saw it back then, in the heady effervescence of the sexual revolution.
The other students in the class were mostly retirees, the age I am now.
I had fantasized about his kiss ever since he looked down my blouse.
The pervading ethos of the post-pill, sexually liberated, free-for-all late 60s gave her no guidelines.
Say I had been one of those retirees taking alife drawing classin 1969.
Would I have taken my teenage self aside to warn her?
The abuse of power?
Would I have told her that she was a victim, or about to become one?
At seventeen, I would not have listened.
I did not see myself as a victim.
I saw myself as a fearless young woman who got the lover she wanted.
Only three percent of married men leave their wives for the other womanaccording to The Institute of Family Studies.
But Arnold and I were the exception.
He and my mother became close friends.
It was a happily ever after marriage.
But had my teenage self listened, what would I have said to her?
The daughter, only a teenager herself, will ask for sleepovers.
Or would I tell her how she will eventually need to learn to grow old as the younger woman?
One day, after he is gone, she will grow old overnight.
Later, she and I ran into each other in the ladies room.
Her curious glance seemed to seek something from me, but one can never be sure.
What did she want to ask me?
Do I have regrets?
Was it worth it?
Or maybe she wanted more practical advice.
Does he often not get hard?
Are you in his will?
Is the condo in your name?
What do you do about his children who are older than you?
As she silently left the bathroom, she turned around to stare at me again.
I finally recognized her expressionan amalgamation of fear and awe.
The girl wasnt seeking my advice.
I was about her age when I, too, saw my firstoldyounger woman.
She will have to sit by his death bed and listen for that last exhalation.
Isnt that what happily ever after really means?
A love that lasts long enough that one lover is there to end the other lovers eyelids.
But if I am to be honest, Im very thankful back in 1969 that no one did.
Jill Ciment is the author of the forthcoming memoir, Consent,out June 11.
Consent: A Memoir
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